Harry returned the memory to Malfoy’s cabinet and locked the door. He paused, staring at Malfoy’s school robes. They hung over the back of a chair, the Slytherin tie pin temporarily attached to the hood so it would not be lost. Harry reached out and stroked the robes, noting that these were a softer, higher quality material than his own. He thought about the life of luxury and privilege that Malfoy had led, brought up as the scion of an old, powerful, and well-respected family. He had never wanted for anything. His bed sheets had been silk, his every whim catered to by an army of house elves, his every desire given by his parents. How different they were.
He picked up the robes and buried his face in them, breathing deeply of Malfoy’s fragrance – something citrus like lemon, but warm like spice, a subtle blend that would only be sensed if one was close to him.
Harry wondered if Lucius had been aware of it beneath the imperius curse as he had penetrated his son and ripped him apart. Harry closed his eyes, wanting to block out the sight, the sounds, the blood, and Voldemort’s cruel gaze. Had the Death Eaters taken in the scent as they had forced Malfoy over and over, laughing at his pain, enjoying themselves with his screams ringing in their ears.
Harry abruptly dropped the robes and left the room. He needed to do something. He was filled with a violent energy, a shaking need to hit something or scream or shoot fire-bolts into the sky. It was as if he was full to bursting of some building and roiling power that threatened to burst into uncontrollable flames if he didn’t do something to release it. He wanted to find Voldemort’s body, resurrect it, and kill it over and over in the most terrible slow ways, to punished the Dark Lord for what he had done – to Harry, to his friends, to all the wizards and Muggles who had been his victims, but mostly, for what he had done to Draco Malfoy.
He ran down the valley, past Hagrid’s abandoned hut and towards the Forbidden Forest. He ran until his breath struggled in his lungs, until his legs burned, but the memory would not leave him.
Collapsing against a tree, he let out a scream of frustration and rage, hardly aware of its echo and the sudden silence in the forest around him. His wand was in his hand and, without thought or care he pointed it at the ancient oak in front of him. He did not utter a word or a breath or a need, but the tree burst into flames, then exploded, chucks of oak flew around him, but he was untouched. Rising to his feet, he let out another deep-throated scream and abruptly he was surrounded by a ring of fire, a shield of burning, boiling heat, Hell personified. He imagined every single one of the Death Eaters, Lucius, Bellatrix, Voldemort writing in pain around him, screaming for mercy, begging for their lives. He laughed, and imagined himself making the fire hotter, watching their flesh melt from their blackened bodies. It wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough. His laughter turned into another howl of fury, then into tears.
The stink of singed hair brought him to his senses and he remembered uncontrollable, deadly fiendfyre. Abruptly he cast a powerful water charm and within seconds the whole area dripped and creaked and popped. Soot turned to black mud around Harry’s feet. A tree collapsed nearby showering him with bits of charcoal and splinters of shattered wood.
He did not feel better, he only felt empty.
He stood there for a long time, concentrating on the sounds and smells and sights around him, wanting this destruction to fill his mind and replace what he had seen, the guilt he knew would overtake him if he let it.
And he knew he would deserve it. Malfoy would never, ever forgive him if he knew that Harry had looked into his memories – no, not his – Lucius’s memories. Harry’s growing feelings, denied and confusing as they were, could never ever come to fruition. How could he ever attempt to touch Malfoy as a lover, or even as a friend, after what he had seen, after what Malfoy had experienced, and all because he had tried to protect Harry?
And why did Malfoy have his father’s memories locked away.
Now Harry was starting to think more rationally. His rage had been replaced by a sodden hopelessness – and questions, lots of questions. He knew he would never have the answers – how could he dare to ask them?
Wiping away his tears and leaving behind the destruction that he had wrought, Harry slowly began to walk back to school.
*************
“Where have you been?” Hermione asked. “I thought you might come to Hogsmeade after all. Is everything all right?”
Harry nodded, not trusting his own voice. He was working quietly on some homework, tucked away in a corner where he was hard to notice. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but, at the same time, he had no wish to be alone. He dreaded Malfoy returning from his trip, and dreaded, even more, the chance that Malfoy might use Occlumency on him and discover what he had seen and done.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione persisted. “You’re as white as a sheet. You look awful. Are you ill?”
Harry nodded, accepting the suggestion as an excuse.
“Then you should go to the infirmary.”
“It’s nothing. Just a headache,” Harry whispered. Just... leave me alone. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure?” Hermione stroked his shoulder. A nod. Hermione smiled at him. “I won’t bother you with what happened earlier then. I’ll tell you later.” She left him alone to brood.
After a while, Harry gave up on his work. He was unable to concentrate at all. He packed all his stuff away and went up to the dorm. It was warm and silent – everyone was in the common room laughing and joking and drinking butterbeer after their day out. He knew it would be a long time before he could join them.
He lay on his bed and closed the curtains, blocking out the sight of Malfoy’s schoolboy robes. Putting his glasses on the bedside cabinet, he shut his eyes. His head really was pounding, but not with pain. Confusion and guilt, the image of Lucius’s face, Voldemort’s soft seductive voice whispering Draco’s fate. It all whirled in and around him and he wondered if it really were possible to obliviate oneself. Fear of Malfoy reading his mind, fear of treating the Slytherin differently - the more he thought about it all, the more it twisted and burrowed into him, and the more he knew he would not be able to face Malfoy with this knowledge inside his head.
Yet there were questions he wanted answered at the same time. He wanted to know why Malfoy had his father’s memory and not his own, even more terrible ones – or did he? There were other vials in that cabinet. Perhaps one of those held Malfoy’s own horror? He wanted to know how Lucius had died. He wanted, also, to know why Voldemort had not killed Malfoy. In his eyes Malfoy had failed so many times. He had failed in the most important task of all. He had chance after chance to deliver Harry to his feet, but he had not. Why?
And Harry needed to have his stolen memories inside his head to find out the answers. He could not obliviate himself. He could not take the memories and put them in a vial. He could not take a potion. He had no way of locking what he had seen from Malfoy’s expert spells.
Or did he?
Snape had tried to teach him Occlumency. Malfoy had given him more knowledge. Harry knew the theory. He knew that a wall could be built – Malfoy had even done it for him in his mind, and, in doing so, had showed Harry the way.
Leaping up from his bed, Harry set off for the library.
*************
He sat up all night, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak when the library shut for the night. He read chapter after chapter on the art of Occlumency and Legilimency. He studied as he had never studied before, determined to lock away his dreadful secret so that no one, not even the most powerful, could take his thoughts.
As dawn started to lighten the windows, he sat back in his chair, realising, as he straightened, that he had not moved at all during the night except to turn pages. His back cramped at the movement and he let out a soft moan, immediately standing up and tipping over the chair. The pain ripped down his back muscles. He frantically twisted and turned, desperate to rid himself of the hurt. At last the agony faded to a more manageable misery and Harry rubbed at his clouded eyes and worked his dry mouth. He needed a hot bath, something to eat and to put into practice that which he had learned so diligently.
He replaced his cloak, picked up the fallen chair and sneaked out of the library, narrowly avoiding Tubbs who must have heard the chair falling and come running. It was strange how the caretakers of Hogwarts always knew when someone was out of bed and wandering. Maybe there were wards set on each room that tripped if someone entered or left after hours. He would have to make sure he carried his map at all times in that case.
He reached the prefect’s bathroom and whispered the password. Hoping that it still worked – it did. Harry locked the door behind him, cast a silencing spell so not to alert the patrolling Tubbs, and began to run himself a deep and scented bath.
Shedding his clothes he settled into the almost uncomfortably warm water. He let out a sigh and let himself float as the water soothed his sore back. This was almost as good as an orgasm.
Talking of which...
Afterwards, feeling slightly more relaxed and at ease, Harry settled at the side of the huge bath and closed his eyes as he began to reach inside himself and imagine a pile of bricks.
He had a wall to build.